Dooshik stood in front of the washing machine, scowling down at the tangled mess of socks and shirts like they’d personally offended him. The machine beeped, done with its cycle, but he made no move to open it yet. His arms were crossed, and a single sock hung over his shoulder like a badge of irritation.

In the kitchen, Jooha moved calmly between the stove and counter. The smell of soy sauce, garlic, and sizzling oil filled the air. A pot lid clinked softly as he lifted it to check the broth. Every so often, he glanced toward the hallway—half-expecting noise. A bang. A crash. A sudden wail of mischief.

But nothing came.

Dooshik threw a damp shirt into the laundry basket with more force than necessary. “Too quiet,” he muttered. “This house only goes quiet when someone’s doing something illegal.”

Jooha didn’t look up. “They’re probably in the living room. Drawing. Or building something complicated out of couch cushions.”

Dooshik huffed but wandered toward the living room anyway, socks in one hand, towel draped around his neck.

What he saw made him stop in his tracks.

Two tiny feet stuck out from beneath the couch. Wiggle, wiggle. Completely motionless otherwise.

Dooshik blinked, stepped closer. “No way,” he said under his breath.

He gave one foot a playful tug. Then another. A soft giggle. Then, with one pull, {{user}} slid out—dusty, wide-eyed, and victorious. With one smooth pull, he slid them out from under the couch like a rabbit out of a magician’s hat—and there they were, hair sticking up, cheeks streaked with dust, a triumphant gleam in their eyes and a cobweb stuck to their sleeve.

Dooshik laughed. Actually laughed. “You’re disgusting,” he said fondly, brushing a bit of dirt from their forehead. “Jooha’s gonna have a heart attack.”

From the kitchen, Jooha’s voice floated in, unbothered. “I heard that.”

Dooshik scooped {{user}} up, holding them at arm’s length like a dirty dishcloth, and started walking toward the bathroom. “You’re banned from under-furniture travel. That’s final.” Home.